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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783850">Your Devils and Your Deeds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrymomhat/pseuds/strawberrymomhat'>strawberrymomhat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Pacific (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Magic, Detective Eugene, Explicit Language, Inspired by Practical Magic, M/M, Witch Merriell, best friend burgie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:08:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrymomhat/pseuds/strawberrymomhat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His hair shines like fire, his eyes are warm like honey. His favorite shape is a star. He can whistle my favorite song, and hear my call from a mile away. His heart will sing, and he can name any kind of bird. He is marvelously kind. </p><p>---</p><p>This is literally just Sledgefu practical magic</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Your Devils and Your Deeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>His hair shines like fire, his eyes are warm like honey. His favorite shape is a star. He can whistle my favorite song, and hear my call from a mile away. His heart will sing, and he can name any kind of bird. He is marvelously kind. <i></i></i>
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</p><p>----</p><p>The roses sprung overnight. Creeping up the sagging wood siding of the gazebo, blood red blooms choking the already weak structure. Sharp little thorns pricking at his arms, slicing open his skin as he rips the roots from the wet earth. Frogs chirping from their hiding spots in the grass, watching him, their song a weighty reminder of what they did. </p><p>“Are you Mr. Shelton?” </p><p>He freezes, paralyzed, the voice behind him foreign and familiar. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, silently cursing the oppressive heat of the summer morning. Breathe. In out, in out. The air feels like water in his lungs. </p><p>“Depends who’s askin’, cher. Call me Merriell.” </p><p>The man standing in his garden looks out of place, his pressed collared shirt wilting under the morning sun. Ginger bangs just the edge of wet from his trek up the hill. </p><p>Merriell’s property is situated on the highest hill overlooking the nearby town. Towering Quercus Virginiana cut off the road a quarter mile from the front gate, Spanish moss clinging to the branches ensuring an eerie sort of privacy for the residents of the house. </p><p>“Detective Eugene Sledge,  Phoenix PD. Are you related to a, uh Romus Burgin?” the man in front of him was asking him. </p><p>Merriell stares up at him from his spot kneeling on the ground. Shit. He’d expected the police to come asking questions but not so soon. Slow breath in through his nose. </p><p>“He’s my brother, of sorts.” Merriell answers evenly. </p><p>“Of sorts?” </p><p>Fucking cops. If he knew who Merriell was, shouldn’t he know who he was to Burgie? </p><p>“We served together, in ‘91. Met at bootcamp, been together ever since. He’s a brother if I ever had one” Merriell does his best to keep his voice from lilting. If he weren’t kneeling on the grave of the man he and Burg had killed last night it wouldn’t be so difficult to shrug this off this guy. Not killed, it was an accident. The only death in his body count he hadn’t taken intentionally. </p><p>“Do you know where I might be able to find him?” the detective is getting antsy, he can tell. Hands on his hips, the sweat in his bangs starting to bead. </p><p>Merriell stands slowly, trying to dust the dirt from his hands as casually as he can. He crosses his fingers behind his back, sends a silent prayer in askance to the spirits to keep him and Burg safe. </p><p>“Come inside, I’ll go find him for ya.” </p><p>He leads Detective Sledge up the narrow stairs from the garden into the kitchen, excusing himself up the stairs in search of Burgie. </p><p>Burgie is in the attic, meditating. Calm as can be. As if there wasn’t a fucking cop in their kitchen right now. Merriell huffs to the center of the room, shaking Burgie’s shoulders to get his attention.</p><p>“Hey! Burg! C’mon, there’s a fuckin' detective in the kitchen asking for you.”</p><p>Burgie continues to sit, legs crossed over one another. He peaks one eye open, looking Shelton up and down, searching.</p><p>“Thought you were supposed to be psychic. Why didn’t you see him commin’ and get your ass down stairs?” Merriell can’t help the frantic anger in his voice. </p><p>“I am clairvoyant Snaf, doesn’t mean I can predict the whole future.” Still, Burgie stands calmly, apparently he isn’t half as freaked out as Merriell is. </p><p>“Okay then, can you tell me why I feel like I can’t lie to him? ‘Cus I’m usually pretty damn good at lying to cops.” </p><p>Burgie rolls his eyes, “Shut up Snaf, it’ll be fine. You know our story. Angleo hit me, you came to pick me up. We haven’t seen him since.” </p><p>It’s Merriell’s turn to roll his eyes, “Yeah, alright. Still… Guy gives me the heebie jeebies.” Burgie seems awfully confident compared to how hysteric he’d been the night before. </p><p>Burgie just shrugs, “Is he cute?” </p><p>“I-” Merriell starts, unbelieving. “He’s alright, yeah” </p><p>Burgie just smiles and stands, striding confidently down the stairs. </p><p>---</p><p>Eugene doesn’t buy their story. Part of that may have something to do with Burgie’s too obvious attempts at flirting. Part of it may or may not have had to do with Merriell stuttering his way through their story. It wasn’t his fault, his tongue wouldn’t do what he asked of it. Whoever this Sledge is, Merriell doesn't trust him.</p><p>But most likely, he didn’t believe them because Angelo’s car was still parked on the drive up to the house and Sledge had run the plates before he’d even gotten to the gate. </p><p>Admitting to stealing the car was their best way out of this, but Burgie is still pissed at him. </p><p>Whatever. </p><p>He needs to get to work, needs to bandage the scrapes on his forearms from the rose thorns too. He’ll patch himself up and open the shop, go about his day like everything is normal. Like there isn’t a guy buried six feet under their gazebo. Fuck. </p><p>Merriell doesn’t see the cop for the rest of the day, but he hears enough about him to keep him on edge. Apparently now the guy is going around town, asking anyone he can find about the Shelton house. </p><p>No doubt people are telling him all their horse shit stories about his Mamman, all the lies about her being some evil voodoo witch who lived on the outskirts of town above the bayou. Nothing people say about her is true. His Mamman had been the kindest woman to ever live. She respected all forms of life, no matter how small or inanimate. When she was alive the house was always filled with music, records booming from the gramophone. ‘Gives a little light’ she used to say.  There was always something stewing in the cauldron over their fireplace, he could always smell the nutmeg and ginger all the way up to the attic. Warm and spicy, like the patchouli perfume she’d wear.</p><p> His Mamman would help the people of the town in any way she could. Mixing potions to help the unemployed find work, weaving threads together so someone could find their true love, or whipping up elixirs to give strength to the sick. For all the good she did for their town, they gave her nothing but grief in return. Fucking Puritains, spreading lies during the day then sneaking up the road at night to beg for her help. </p><p>At first, Merriell had been so angry at the hypocrisy. He was too young to understand why Mamman put up with these people. He desperately wanted to escape it all, the itch to get out only came stronger after Mamman died. So he joined the Marines. It was a way for him to make a change in the world through something physical, tangible rather than the unpredictable nature of magic. Lot of good that had done him. The only good thing he’d gotten from the war was Burgie, everything else just left him shaking awake every night, trapped by his own mind. </p><p>Two tours finished, he’d come home, started up a botanical shop and tried to live a little more peacefully. Until Burgie called him from Arizona three days ago, begging him to come help him when the asshole he'd been dating had escalated from arguing to physical violence. The belladonna wasn't supposed to kill him. Now here they were, dodging questions from detectives and lying to the authorities. Well, he thinks he's not the only one lying to the authorities with all the shit everyone in town is spewing. </p><p>The bell hanging from the shop door rings while he’s unpacking the shampoo jars he’d bottled at home last week. </p><p>“Be right with you” Merriell calls over his shoulder, placing the last of the jars on the high shelves behind the register. </p><p>He steps down from the step ladder, brushing his hands off against his apron. “What can I help you find toda-” voice dying in his throat when he sees who the customer is. Or not a customer. Bright red hair, same out of season tweed jacket from that morning. </p><p>“Detective Sledge, how can I help you?” nerves buried by his growing anger. Why can’t this guy just accept their story and move on? Angelo was an asshole, and a criminal so why was this badge so determined to find him? Doesn’t make sense, not to mention it is still plenty likely that Merriell and Burgie had in fact simply stolen his car and ditched Angelo the first chance they got. </p><p>“I read your letter.” Detective Sledge is saying. What is his first name? Ethan, no. Eugene. His name is Eugene. </p><p>Eugene pulls out one of the letters Merriell had sent Burgie a few months back. They hadn't seen each other for almost a year, Burgie flitting across the country trailing after that douchebag's band. Keeping up with long distance charges and payphone stalls was fucking annoying so they wrote to one another. Usually once a week or so.  Merriell can tell by the envelope that letter Eugene is waving at him is one where Merriell details his recurring nightmares about the desert in a desperate attempt to get them to stop. He'd hoped that confessing his mental purgatory to Burg would help stop the dreams. It didn't work. And now this cop is going to lord his PTSD over him. Great.  

</p>
<p>“That was personal” crossing his arms, Merriell muscles up the most menacing stare he can manage as Eugene turns to face him. </p><p>“It was evidence” </p><p>Merriell doesn’t buy it. Eugene hands the letter to him. Words of heartache, loneliness, fear all well read and worn thin on the paper sheets. </p><p>“Here. it doesn’t classify as evidence anymore, so I’m returning it.” </p><p>Merriell just hums, pointedly not looking up at Eugene. </p><p>“So is any of it true? What they say about you?” Eugene steps to the side to fiddle with the aloe mint chapsticks on the counter. </p><p>“Depends who you asked.” Merriell leans back against the solid wood of the shelving unit, grateful for the large countertop separating him from Eugene. </p><p>“Most folks talked about your mother, said she was some kind of witch.” Eugene laughs low under his breath at the admission. “Said she could raise the dead, or make somebody disappear.” He puts the chapstick he’s fidgeting with down and raises his brow at Merriell. </p><p>Merriell just scoffs, unable to help the sarcastic smile that spreads across his face. “‘Course they did. Like they never came crawling up our steps beggin’ for help when they granny was sick or their pop was dyin’.”</p><p>“So it’s true then?”</p><p>“No, it ain't <i>true<i>,” he whips back. “Mamman did everything she could to help people. Just a little unconventional according to the stuck up lot that lives here.” He crosses his arms, feeling defensive against the curious stare Eugene is giving him. “She studied herbal medicine, family tradition you could say.” </i></i></p>
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</p><p>Eugene hums, wandering over to the shelves to the left that house the shaving creams. </p><p>“Is that what you do then? Herbal medicine?” </p><p>“I help people. Without my shit people here would smell worse than they do. Be a helluva lot uglier too.” </p><p>Eugene laughs at that, airy and genuine that makes Merriell’s chest clench. He picks up a jar of conditioner and brings it over to the counter, reaching into his jacket to pull out his wallet. </p><p>“How many times did you read my letter?” Merriell asks, the worn down paper glaring at him from where it’s resting opposite the register. </p><p>Eugene ignores him though, taking the change Merriell handed him and turning on his heel. He walks out the door, bell ringing loudly in the silence he leaves behind. Asshole, Merriell thinks. </p><p>---</p><p>He and Burgie sit on the porch that night, half finished bottle of whiskey making their limbs heavy against the solid wood of the swing. The wind swirls gently through the trees, the scent of just blooming magnolias drifting light on the breeze. The air is tacky in the way that it only is when a storm's growing. Summers in Louisiana almost always smell like rain, the humidity building until the sky can’t carry the moisture any longer. Like a rubber band being slowly pulled then snapping violently, over and over until late November brings the soothing relief of winter. Frogs and cicadas deafening in the seclusion of the bayou.</p><p>“Snaf, what if he doesn’t leave?” Burgie slurs next to him, the weight of his head steady against Merriell’s shoulder. </p><p>“He’ll give up eventually, all cops do. He’ll get put on another case more urgent than this one and that’ll be the end of it.” Merriell brings the bottle to his lips, savoring the burn of liquor rushing down his throat.</p><p>Burgie sits up, hand grasping the metal chain securing the swing to the roof of the porch. “No, not him.” </p><p>Oh. Merriell is silent for a moment, unsure of how to answer Burgie. </p><p>He’s been harboring the same fear, that whatever thing they buried beneath the gazebo is here to stay. That the roses and thorns are just the beginning of whatever hell they unleashed when they opened that goddamn book. “Guess we’ll have to figure that out if it comes to it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please go watch Practical Magic it is a blessing of a movie. I do not own any of this content I just thought these characters would fit this story well :) </p><p>Title is Case of You by Joni Mitchell of course </p><p>You can find me on Tumblr @strawberrymomhat</p></blockquote></div></div>
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